


on a journey ill

by waterlit



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, Keepsakes, Sappy, Tragedy, What Was I Thinking?, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10778043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit
Summary: There's a grey dawn, a cold drizzle and an empty casket. Allen struggles to make sense of things.





	on a journey ill

A grey dawn, a cold drizzle and an empty casket.

Candles flickered in their cast-iron holders, and the lanterns threw only scant light around the chapel. 

Fitting weather, fitting atmosphere for an exorcist born of shadow and darkness, whose tongue was relentless and sharp, whose temper was flinty, a brooding thunderstorm come to life. For a man who had emerged from the dregs of a dark and difficult life—lives, rather—and reached out  towards the sun like the hero he had never wanted to be.

For him, and for him alone, they kept vigil through the night, until the darkness lifted and the rain started.

First and foremost there was Allen who sat at the intersection of shadow and candlelight with his head in his hands, anguish caught in his throat and as yet uncrystallised into tears.

Lavi and Bookman leaned against the wall, shrouded in darkness, silent and watching. Lenalee sat by Allen, weeping into her lap. Marie and Miranda sat at the back, hand in hand. Tiedoll was sketching, his tears softening the lead of his pencil, softening his sketch of the Asia Branch where Kanda had grown up in this lifetime. A solitary finder, one Gozu, stood at the door leading out of the nave.

When the century-old grandfather clock struck eight, Komui entered. By then the drizzle had turned into a heavy thunderstorm, and lightning flashed amidst the pelting rain and the angry, hanging clouds.

“It’s almost time,” Komui said. His eyes were rimmed red, like bruises, like blood, like death itself.

Allen rose, Lavi at his side. It had been a terrible night for him, reliving the last few moments of his last mission, when, victoriously standing after hewing a Level Three to its death, he had seen Kanda from the corner of his eyes, dragged by a dying Level Four, and thrown off a cliff. In normal circumstances Kanda would have survived—Kanda, who had reflexes like a cat, but this cliff stood tall above a rushing river, its dark face straight and clean, with no jutting footholds for a falling and desperate man to grab onto.

Even a Second Exorcist could not survive that brutal fall. 

Allen had searched and searched, calling out for Kanda until his voice went hoarse, until his legs trembled with exhaustion. But nothing was to be found along the steep river bank. At last, Allen wept over the roaring waters, cast a final glance over the pale rocks, and opened a gate back to the Order.

Komui had sent a search team, but nothing was ever found of Kanda.

That very day, Komui had added Kanda’s name to the ranks of the dead.

And now—now, the vigil was over and the ceremony would start.

“General Tiedoll,” Komui said softly, gesturing to the coffin.

The pallbearers had filtered in with Komui, and they stood around the coffin, ready in their black gloves and bent heads.

Tiedoll nodded, laying his pencil and paper aside, noisily wiping snot from his nose and tears from his eyes. Marie went next, releasing Miranda’s cold hands from his grip. Allen followed after.

Allen remembered the last night they had spent together, the night before they had set out on the disastrous mission. Allen remembered the warmth of Kanda’s back against his, the smell of green tea in Kanda’s that pervaded Kanda’s bed linen. He remembered Kanda’s glare, his determination, his graceful leaps and elegant swordplay, the satisfied smirk Kanda often gave after a particularly difficult and thrilling kill.

Allen could not quite fathom how Kanda, as capable of destroying Akuma as the big cats of the Savannah and prairie were of bringing down prey, could have disappeared so silently. He was a killing machine, a predator who could bring down his enemy in the blink of an eye, and like the big cats, he should have had the proverbial nine lives.

How could such a man have vanished so suddenly, so easily, like the morning mist on a hot summer day?

Allen looked down as they went on their way, a motley crew following after the empty coffin. After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the incinerator and watched as the coffin entered the furnace.

“I wish I managed to bring his body back,” Allen said.

“Don’t blame yourself, Allen,” Komui said, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

“I blame myself very much,” Allen said. “I should have been faster, quicker.” He turned and closed his tired eyes, unable to watch the flames consuming the empty coffin, unable to hear the cackling of the hungry fire, unable to imagine the cold body of Kanda Yu lying alone somewhere in the growing storm.

When the flames died down at long last, and when the terrible burning smell had started to become diluted, Lavi spoke. “I found a poem in Yu’s room.”

“What is it about?” Tiedoll asked through his tears.

“I’ll read it out,” Lavi said. He cleared his throat. “On a journey, ill; my dream goes wandering over withered fields.”

Marie said, “Did Kanda write it himself?”

Lavi shook his head and showed them the piece of white paper. The original poem had been written on the left in a tidy calligraphic hand, and its English translation had been copied out by Kanda on the right.  

“It’s a death poem written by a Japanese poet who lived over a century ago,” Bookman said.

“I think,” Lavi said, unable to look up because he felt himself tearing, “that Kanda copied this out for us to find.”

Bookman nodded. “It’s a tradition. The people of the beautiful, mystical land of Edo considered the death poem as a parting gift to those left behind. Kanda Yu must have written this beforehand, knowing that he might die any time.” 

“He used to like reading those Zen poems,” Tiedoll said, his voice very raspy. “He never admitted it, but I caught him at it many times.”

Allen turned to Tiedoll. “Could—could I keep it?”

“Certainly,” Tiedoll said, ruffling Allen’s hair. He sniffed loudly. “You deserve to keep it. Marie and I have other keepsakes.”

Allen took the paper from Lavi, holding it tight to his chest. In time, he would be stronger for this, but now, he could only hold Kanda’s last words to his chest, sob, and wait for time to heal his broken heart.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on FFN in 2015, but deleted subsequently because I felt it wasn't sufficiently developed as a standalone story. It still isn't, even after a re-write, but it'll do for now until I have inspiration to edit it further. 
> 
> The poem Kanda copied out is said to be Basho's death poem, translated into the English in Yoel Hoffmann (ed), Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death. 
> 
> Since time began  
> the dead alone know peace.  
> Life is but melting snow.  
> \- Nandai (translated into the English in Yoel Hoffmann as above)


End file.
